


5:8

by honeydippedanarchy



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Kinda, Religion, Sam is Human, Sam isn't Always Alright, Sam-Centric, Wings, angel au, everyone's dead already but they aren't dead, it's weird - Freeform, very sam centric, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-15
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-08-15 05:55:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8044906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeydippedanarchy/pseuds/honeydippedanarchy
Summary: Deep down inside, Sam always knew he'd end up like this, right here, in the end. If there's anything he learned from Riley it's that tempting death with chaste kisses eventually catches up with you. And Sam, he doesn't avoid fate. Never could.





	5:8

**Author's Note:**

> This is very Sam-centric because there isn't anywhere near enough of that. The relationship between him and Bucky and him and Steve will be there soon but I really want to focus on Sam. And guess what?? Stucky ain't a thing here. Doesn't exist. That's right, you've reached heaven.

Deep down inside, Sam always knew he'd end up like this, right here, in the end. If there's anything he learned from Riley it's that tempting death with chaste kisses eventually catches up with you. It always does. He's never tried to escape fate, was never tempted to choose the safer path. He's resigned himself to a dangerous life, and if it was shorter than average he would just have to make it all worth it. He hopes like hell it was. His only regret is what he's left behind, so he stares forward. Forward into the blinding light he's always been told to avoid. But Sam, he doesn't avoid fate. Never could. 

 

-

 

When Sam was little his mom used to drag him and his sisters to church. It only made sense, his father being the minister. He’d try his best to get out of it anyway, would hide his church shoes, hide his suit his mother laid out for him, would even hide  _ himself  _ in hopes that his mother would let him stay home  _ please mama, just this once _ . His hiding spot was of the very best, tucked away in the pantry with the door cracked as he watched the domesticity of his family play before him like a movie reel. He would watch his father fumble with his tie and ask his mother for help. He would hear his mother say “You are a grown man. Tie your own damn tie.” But it was all for show, they all knew it, and then she’d come into focus, tie his tie with the fondest smile on her face and his father would lean down for the inevitable kiss. It was all very sweet but Sam never had the urge to seek this for himself. His mom always knew he was there, and without turning from his father addressed Sam in the pantry, and Sam always though  _ of course she does, she has eyes in the back of her head _ . “Samuel Thomas Wilson,” his mother would say, “If you don’t get your tail into that suit—” and she never had to finish. The simple threat was enough to get Sam tumbling grudgingly out of the pantry and into his room, and putting on the suit with disdain. On his way back out his mom would fix  _ his  _ tie, run her hands gently over his little afro and give him a kiss on his head. “See? Don’t you look handsome in that suit?” “Yes, mama.”   It was as much of a comfort as it was a dreaded routine.

 

He never actually got out of going (save for one time when his forehead ran hot and the rest of him ran cold. He was too sick to remember most of it and too sick to savor it), would still end up in Sunday school, would still be volunteered for the after service potlucks and fundraisers, and would still find himself falling asleep during Wednesday’s night-service, nudged awake by his sister’s sharp and elbow and mother’s sharp look before inevitably falling back to sleep. As he slept, church always managed to slip its way into his dreams. He’d nod off with images of white clouds, pearly sky and golden gates guarded by a God that looked just like him. He was too young to think of what any of this meant, too young to think about the implications in his subconscious. The only thing he would think about was the sound of his father’s preaching voice, fuzzy and far away as he drifted. 

 

_ Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. _

 

-

 

Looking back, even with his lack of religious affiliation, he supposes he should have paid more attention in Sunday school but he tries not to dwell to the things he can’t change (he tries). He supposes he should have paid more attention to what’s supposed to happen when you die because there’s a moment when Sam thinks he hasn’t died and then a moment of sheer confusion. He’s on a bed that’s way too soft to be his own but he isn’t attached to a bunch of cords and monitors so he isn’t in a hospital. When he peaks his eyes open he’s faced with nothing but white. White walls, white bed, white light. The irony of him leaving a whitewashed society for a whitewashed room doesn’t escape him and he laughs to himself about it. 

 

“If you’re making a joke about white people,” a deep voice starts, “I already made it. You'll have to find a new joke, son.”

 

Sam doesn’t get startled, but he contemplates ignoring the voice. Things like saying  _ who’s there _ or looking for trouble is exactly what gets people killed in those horror movies he probably shouldn't have watched but did anyway. But then he decides  _ fuck it, can't die twice,  _ so he struggles to sit up and finds he's still in pain. He's a little pissed—he heard someone, he knows he did, yet he sees nothing but white and his own pale hands. 

 

“Lay back down before you hurt yourself,” the voice says again. Then, and this time Sam  _ does  _ startle, a man appears in the room, just fucking  _ materializes  _ and stands against the wall adjacent to Sam’s bed like this is all a normal occasion.

 

The man is tall, black and wears an eyepatch. He stands with confidence, has the air of someone with years of wisdom and experience, and possesses the face of someone who's dealt with too much bullshit. 

 

Sam blinks at him, and the man stares at Sam with faint amusement. He blinks again. The man is still there. Sam, with much effort, looks around and doesn't see any doors, any windows, so just assumes that 

 

“God?” 

 

God chuckles at that. “Not at all,” he answers. Fury.”

 

Sam doesn’t know what to say besides “Okay.”

 

Not God Fury stares at Sam for a moment before saying, “You don’t have any questions? People usually have questions.”

 

“Nope.” Sam has a plan, a plan to never ask questions again, never stress again and to just fucking  _ rest _ . He leans back down and lets his eyes fall shut. The first step in his three step plan is interrupted, however, when another voice (that Sam’s willing to be belongs to someone he wouldn’t be able to see) says, “ _ Great, I can leave then _ ,” and a second voice says “ _ Buck _ ,” in a slightly exasperated voice. “ _ What? He doesn’t need us _ ,” the first voice says (and it’s becoming too complicated for Sam to keep up with but the curious side of him that doesn’t know when to quit compels him to open his eyes). 

 

The owners of the voices materialize just like Not God Fury and then he’s greeted with two white boys surrounding his bed—a brunette and a blonde—staring at him with curious enthusiasm.  “Hey there,” the owner of the first voice says with all of the inflection of a rock. “I’m Bucky and you’re dead, buddy. Literally. Welcome to the afterlife.” Sam isn’t amused.

 

“I don’t think he’s amused, Steve. He isn’t amused,” Bucky says, looking at the blonde. He’s got annoyingly long hair pulled back into a messy not-bun and a face that screams white-boy trouble. Steve, Sam presumes, let’s out a long-suffering sigh and says, “Maybe you should let us do the talking instead. You are—well—dead, sorry for being too blunt or  _ insensitive _ ,” he shoots a pointed look at Bucky then shoots a sincere and solemn look at Sam, “and this isn’t heaven per se...but it’s going to be okay. Me and Bucky, we’re here to help you through it.”

 

Not God Fury moves from the wall then, steps closer to Sam’s bed, “Sam,” holds his arms out in a  _ ta-da  _ fashion, “Welcome to Shield.”

 

Sam supposes he definitely should have paid more attention in church.

 

“Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> So like...comment?? Or kudos?? Or both?? Because this took a while to write and a lot of confidence to post and not delete.
> 
> Talk to me on [tumblr](http://www.honeydippedanarchy.tumblr.com) about sammy or this fic or dogs. I'm not picky.


End file.
